Chapter 15
It took around five or six hours to reach the reconstructed training ground which Neala had heard the guards referring to as the Sloe Stronghold, named for the fruit of the Blackthorn.
It sickened Neala to hear them refer to the castle—McNair Castle, her home—by such a name.
They had stopped briefly several times during the long ride, sheltering from pelting rain and allowing many of the men to drink wine and laugh over their coming victory.
In that whole time, Neala stayed close to Ansel, but he scarcely even glanced her way.
He did not talk to her once, and though Neala was partly glad for it as it gave her time to think, she could not understand why he had brought her along at all.
Her body ached from the journey, but she barely noticed.
Had Elspeth been able to get the message out?
The convent was far from Blackthorn Castle, but the Sparrows had a network of spies that allowed them to pass messages quickly.
If Elspeth had been able to act quickly, Laura would be aware of the whole situation in a day or two.
Would that be quickly enough to intervene before the rebels arrived?
If Sparrows came heredirectly from the convent, it would take maybe three or four days in total, assuming the message had been sent immediately.
Could Neala stall for that long? Would the rebels mount their attack before then? She could only hope that they did not.
The morning sun had fully emerged from the horizon as they reached the castle, and Neala's heart almost stopped in her chest at the sight. The rain had stopped, and the white clouds above floated over something that to her had once only existed in her mind.
The castle had been reconstructed using more modern materials than those with which it had been originally built, though the stone had obviously been carefully selected to be as close to the ruin as possible.
Neala could see patches where the ruined parts of the building had been built over with the new.
She knew that much of the old castle exterior had survived the attacks even though the insides would have been burned away, but even the broken and destroyed parts that had once been claimed by flames now stood like new.
"The king wanted tae raze the place and build anew," one of the warriors said loudly to another. "But the prince convinced him tae keep it as close tae McNair Castle as they could. He said that it would be more of a taunt tae the rebels."
Neala knew that should make her angry, but her heart was too full of too many complex emotions to even consider any more.
She could barely think, barely speak, as she dismounted her horse on a guard's orders and started shakily following Ansel toward the massive castle doors that led into the stronghold.
It felt wrong that she had no memories of this place beyond those she had seen in images or those which Morag and Laura had described to her. But she'd dreamed of McNair Castle so often in her life that, as the doors creaked open, she felt like she was coming home.
Her mother had once stood here, perhaps holding Graham's hand while she taught him to walk or scolding Barry for childish misbehavior.
Her father had once entered through these doors, maybe carrying little Abigail on his shoulders—the same daughter, the same sister, whose name Neala carried now as protection.
Neala had been here, a babe in arms, perhaps carried through these very doors tens or even hundreds of times—by her mother, by her father, or even by Laura herself, who had cared for her even back then.
Cailean had played here, driving Morag to madness as he tried to emulate his older brothers—and he'd run through these grounds, hand in hand with Morag, as they'd fled the attack that had killed the rest of their family.
King Robert and Queen Fiona McNair were long dead. The Crown Prince, Barry, and the prince and princess, Graham and Abigail, had been buried long ago. But Neala, the youngest of the McNair children, had lived against all odds, and now she knew that her brother, Cailean, had survived as well.
And now, despite all odds, despite everything in the world saying it would never happen again, Neala was coming home.
As she stepped through the doors, she understood one thing as clearly as crystal. She would never relent. She would never allow her home to be taken from her, not now that she had found it again. She would find her brother, somehow, and together, they would rebuild their family.
No matter what it took.
"Stay with the prince. He wants ye close," a guard hissed at her, pushing her forward and breaking the spell.
Neala stumbled and almost fell, her hands going out to prevent her fall and accidentally pressing against the hard muscles of Ansel's back.
He glanced back at her, but otherwise did not react.
Embarrassed, she hastily straightened herself up, ignoring the snorting laughter of some of the warriors nearby.
As the doors closed behind them, and they stood in the grand entrance hall of the castle, a uniformed man and several strong-looking men stepped forward.
By his demeanor, it was clear that the newcomer was the castle's commander, highly ranked in the False King's forces, and indeed, he addressed Ansel directly with only a small bow of the head.
"Yer Highness," the commander greeted. "Welcome tae the Sloe Stronghold. We're honored tae have ye here, and it's me greatest personal pleasure tae be able tae finally meet ye. I am the leader of the trainin' group, Alec—"
"I ken who ye are, Alec," Ansel replied curtly. "And on behalf of me father, I thank ye for yer service so far. But for now, this stronghold is under me command."
Alec's eyes widened, but he hastily hid his surprise and irritation in a quick bow—though not quickly enough that Neala didn't notice. "Of course," he said smoothly. "What are yer orders?"
"Me men need tae be refreshed, after which they'll be ready tae be stationed.
See that they're fed and watered and shown their quarters," Ansel replied immediately.
Neala frowned slightly, surprised. She hadn't expected his first priority to be the wellbeing of the warriors and guards with whom they had traveled.
Before she could ruminate on what this meant, though, Ansel had already pushed past it to the next point.
"After that, ensure that there is a perimeter around the castle at all times.
The rebel attack, accordin' tae our information, will come in three days.
Four, at most. The Sloe Stronghold will nae be unguarded at any point during this. We will nae become complacent."
"We are never complacent—" Alec started.
Ansel did not acknowledge him, and instead kept going with his orders. "Patrols and fortifications. A mix of the trainees and me experienced warriors, around the clock. Understood?"
"Aye, of course," Alec replied.
Ansel nodded. "Good. See it done, and I will find ye shortly tae discuss our plans in more detail."
Neala stood still and quiet, allowing herself to blend into the background even as her heart and mind raced.
She'd picked up what Ansel said. Three or four days before the rebel attack meant there may be enough time for the Sparrows to get the message and send someone to intervene.
There was no guarantee, none at all, but there was a chance.
One of Alec's men approached her, grabbing her roughly by the shoulder. "Ye, lass. Come with me. I'll show ye tae the kitchens and the maids will find ye a bunk with the rest of the servants."
"Nay," Ansel said sharply, and the man froze so quickly that it was almost comical. "The lass stays with me."
"Of–of course, Yer Highness," the man mumbled, dropping his hand from Neala's shoulder as though it burned him.
"Abby, follow."
Confused, Neala obeyed, moving back to Ansel's side and following as he abruptly set off toward a door at the other end of the entrance hall.
He walked with purpose, obviously knowing where he was going, and an unexpected flash of pain crossed Neala's heart as she came to the cutting realization that Ansel was more familiar with this castle than she was.
He knew it. He'd been here. She only had her dreams.
She followed as he led her through a corridor then up a set of stairs, along another corridor then another set of stairs, then out into a quiet, private corridor with a carpet running along the stone floor.
"What is this?" she asked at last, her voice rough from hours of not talking. There were only four doors in this small corridor, and it was so quiet that she got the feeling that it was a rarely visited area of the castle. "Where are we?"
Ansel glanced at her, and at long last, he spoke to her. "Private rooms. Guest rooms. One is mine, or was when I was a bairn, when I came here as me father's ward. I will take the commander's quarters now, of course, but I was always comfortable here."
His answer did nothing except make Neala even more confused. Did he bring her here to clean his old bedroom? Was she to prepare the rooms in this small corridor for other guests?
The prince placed his hand on the small of her back, steering her toward one of the doors.
His hand was warm and firm even through her clothing, and despite herself, she found herself leaning into the touch.
She did not understand the magnetism between them or the way that her body reacted every time he was close, but even though he was her enemy, she had to secretly admit that she did not want him to pull away.